


The Magpie Comes At Noon

by pianoblack



Category: Dreamer Trilogy - Maggie Stiefvater, Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Alternate Universe - Organized Crime, Enemies to Lovers, Explicit Language, Gun Violence, Multi, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, but like nameless people, everything is the same...no it isnt....yes it is....no, in fact everyone who is supposed to be dead and/or a dream is alive, niall is alive, the mains kill people
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-02
Updated: 2020-11-13
Packaged: 2021-03-05 23:41:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,090
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25673746
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pianoblack/pseuds/pianoblack
Summary: Niall Lynch and sons have maintained their criminal black market territory for the better part of a decade thanks to a combination of charisma, ruthlessness, and, of course, the ability to pull whatever one wants from one's dreams into reality.  Things start unraveling when what was supposed to be a simple repossession isn't what anyone expects.  It only gets worse from there.  The Lynches have made a lot of enemies over the years and when they finally start showing signs of weakness, something's bound to give.
Relationships: Minor or Background Relationship(s), Other Relationship Tags to Be Added
Comments: 1
Kudos: 18





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> henlo - this is my first time posting any fic at all and of course i decided a semi-convoluted multi-chap was the best way to debut. this is more plot driven than it is about relationships so please be advised. i'm bad at tags but i did try to include all the normal hot ticket items. they'll likely get updated as i remember to add stuff. anyway. grab a seat, pour yourself a drink, and enjoy the shitshow.

It starts with the gun - that's good, that's exciting - but then the disappointment piles on from there. Tonight is his first real night of work for the family and Ronan is unashamed of the excitement that tingles through him. Sure, he may have been born a Lynch, and therefore automatically grandfathered into the business, but up until now he's never been a part of anything important. A bit of collections and paperwork here and there mostly. Never on any field work. Never any contact with clients. Never anything where having a gun would have been a requirement.

It starts with the gun, but the first strike is Declan Lynch: older brother and indubitable fun sucker. Growing up, Ronan had attributed Declan's _Declanness_ to the stick he must have shoved up his ass one day and unfortunately never retrieved. _Don't be reckless_ Declan had accused before Ronan even had a chance to take the gun from his hand. _We don't have time for your games_ he said impatiently, as though Ronan wanted to drag his feet at The Barns when there was job to be done. _Don't embarrass me_ which had been the worst of all. Ronan doesn't even know where to begin with that one. He almost doesn't want to respond but of course he can't help it. He slams the door to Declan's equally unfun Volvo as hard as the safety cushioning system allows and does his best to convince himself that the soft thump is soothing. They haven't even left yet. He has a gun. Tonight will be a night. Declan will be Declan. 

The second strike is the location. Ronan thinks it's a joke at first. Some kind of weird initiation hazing thing he's heard about in movies. The neighborhood is homely and quiet. Rows of single story houses lined equally along a path of trees just past full bloom. In a few more hours the unusually hot sun will sear through the branches, but for now the late spring night is comfortable. It looks more a place for pre-school play dates overseen by women in sweet colored dresses with their gray-streaked hair up in a loose bun that jostles when they toss their heads back in laughter. He can imagine the streets during the day dotted with rambunctious children and their pets wreaking joy and havoc throughout the neighborhood without regard for where they are. The entire scene itself is so far removed from what Ronan knows that he finds it hard to believe his life, especially this part of his life, is intersecting with this part of the world at all.

The brothers don't looks like they belong, though for opposite reasons. They both wear the night like a comfortable cloak, blending seamlessly into it with their matching black outfits. But that's where the similarities end. Where Ronan has a scuffed leather jacket over his simple black shirt and artfully distressed black jeans, Declan prefers his jacket to be tailored, his shirts collared, and his pants freshly pressed. Two sides to a colorless spectrum.

Their mark is an unassuming house not too far from the main street. It looks the same as any other, painted in bright baby blues with peeling white trim. A little worse for wear but not shabby. Well-loved one might describe it with a tired smile and the neighbors would laugh and make thinly veiled plans to fix it up that no one ever follows through on. It's picaresque and idyllic and the absolute last place Ronan expects to be a massive drug lab.

"What the fuck is this?" Ronan says loudly as they approach the house. He doesn't bother keeping his voice down. Had it not been late at night his crusty remarks might have earned them a curious look from the neighbors but as it is in fact well after midnight the only attention he gets is a curious bark from a dog.

Declan doesn't respond to Ronan's question, probably due to the aforementioned no bullshit stick he constantly has up his ass, and instead knocks on the door. He stands there looking every bit the boy scout troupe leader he never was. Ronan leans his shoulder against the door jamb with his leather jacket parted just enough for the edge of his gun to be clearly visible to whoever opens the door.

No one opens the door.

Declan knocks again a little louder yet gets the same response. Ronan turns his gaze up and down the empty and street and when he nods, Declan gets to work picking the lock. It would have been much easier to kick the door down, had it been Ronan's decision, but he also knows that's exactly why it isn't his decision. And though Ronan is always reluctant to give out credit, Declan makes quick and silent work of the door. Declan gestures to Ronan with a flick of his head and speaks around the lock picking needles in his mouth.

"Get your gun."

"Way the fuck ahead of you." Ronan cocks his gun. Declan scoffs but Ronan hears it for what it really is: _for the love of Mary, Ronan, watch your language_. Ronan curses again just because he feels like he should.

The inside of the house is just as welcoming as the outside. Dainty lace doilies on antique mahogany. An overstuffed couch in faded colors facing a modest television. There's a thin layer of dust on everything. Declan and Ronan enter silently, standing back to back with guns ready and they wait. They listen. There's no other sign nor sound of anyone in the house so they split to do a quick sweep. Per the floorplans Declan secured from the library earlier that day, the house is a slightly cramped two bedroom one bath. The open sitting area blends into the dining/kitchen with a big sliding door to the backyard. This is where Ronan searches. He tests the door and it's rusted into place by years of disuse. He peers carefully outside through the windows for anyone huddled in the dark just outside. All of it empty and untouched. The only other room is a cramped little laundry room with a broken light bulb hanging from the ceiling. He sees nothing. Hears nothing.

Declan had taken to the hall to search the bedrooms and bathroom to no avail. By the time he comes back to the kitchen Ronan is perched on the counter with his gun dangling lazily in his one hand while he uses the other to open and close all the pantry doors within reach (which, given the small space and Ronan's height is basically all of them). Everything about this feels wrong.

"You sure this is the right place?"

"Yes," Declan replies without looking up from his phone. He's double checking his already triple checked notes and probably trying to find a way to pin this on Ronan. Ronan wants to hit something so he does. Declan ignores all of this.

"How do you know that - the fuck is his name? - how do you know he wasn't lying? Fuck man, he could already be on the next flight to Russia."

"No," is Declan's only response. He walks back into the laundry room that Ronan had already checked. It barely has enough room to set down a basket between the two machines let alone hide anything else. Ronan doesn't know what Declan is looking for in there.

Declan kneels on top of one of the machines and runs his fingers along the sloped ceiling, knocking at it in in places, until he finds what he's looking for. It takes him another second of grunting and awkwardly twisting his body to fit in the small space and force open the hatch to the attic. It was an easy thing to miss in the dark. He coughs as a plume of dust falls on his shoulders and soon he's standing at his full height on top of the dryer. Without being asked, Ronan moves to give Declan a boost. Ronan pulls himself up after without help.

The attic is just an attic, much to Ronan's disappointment. Strike number three. Pink fluff spills from the walls and dust has found it's way over everything. The brothers are bent nearly completely over and Declan shuffles forward on his knees until he reaches a spot where the ceiling suddenly juts straight up. Their heads knock against the unfinished ceiling and the corridor is more narrow than their shoulders but at least they can stand with their backs only half hunched. It's impossible that someone hadn't heard them but Declan still clings to stealth because he much prefers operating in the shadows.

The narrow path leads to a glowing orange light at the end that they realize is coming from an outside street lamp through a high circular window. It opens up into a small room which would have had just enough room for the brothers to hunch side by side with their shoulders touching one side and the walls on the other, but most of the floor space is taken up by the body slumped in the corner. Declan is already used to these things so he averts his eyes and takes the Lord's name in vain. Ronan quickly shuffles back when his brain catches up to what his eyes are seeing. His back knocks into the unfinished wall and sends insulation flying everywhere.

It's definitely a person. He looks no older than Ronan or Declan. His arms a thin, wiry things ending in bony hands cupped limply over his lap like he's waiting for someone to pour something into them. A tipped bottle of beer is beside him still dripping onto the floor. His closed eyes are bruised like he hasn't slept in days and his dark hair is slick with grease and his scabbed mouth is slack. There is no blood.

Declan takes a step forward when the boy's eyes shoot open. Tiny pinprick pupils and red spiderwebbing throughout. Not dead, but sleeping. Ronan lets out a shaky breath. His heart begins to vibrate in his his chest.

The boy isn’t looking at either of them, his eyes stare straight ahead as though he's seeing something through the walls. Ronan nearly knocks Declan over to threaten or yell or do _something_ when he notices the bag in the boy's hands. It's overflowing with little pills in all colors cascading to the floor.

Had he always been holding a bag?

Declan and Ronan reach understanding at the same time.

Together they say, "Fuck."

* * *

  
Niall Lynch repeats the sentiment when his sons bring the boy to him, though he sounds more excited than anything else. Some part of Ronan wishes that Niall won't believe them. It would give him an opportunity to explain himself, to prove that he's ready for this. Niall hadn't been enthusiastic about Ronan joining tonight's operation but Ronan had inherited his stubbornness from Niall so there appeared to be no other alternative. Ronan can't quite articulate it, but in a roundabout way, Niall's easy acceptance of the strange situation burns something deep inside.

For his part, the boy from the attic is acting far more respectable than Ronan would have figured. The second he got his senses back it had been nothing but vitriol and insults that Ronan begrudgingly found impressive. Any question was met with what Ronan believed to be Russian lanced through with enough sarcasm that it didn't matter that Ronan didn't speak the language. The intent had been clear enough. The brothers overtook him easily though he put up a fair fight for being so unevenly matched. Drunk and drugged he still held his own for a couple of blows against the brothers Lynch.

Now, though, the skinny thing seems to have lost all appetite for speaking and is back to watching empty space like he's waiting for something to catch fire. He can't use his hands since they're bound behind his back and his mouth is stuffed with an old beer-soaked rag taped thrice over with thick, tacky duct tape. Declan is nothing if not thorough. The boy is sat against the bones of some abandoned construction project just off a forgotten service road miles away from the nearest through-way. It's difficult to parse what the lot had been intended for whenever it had been first built but whatever it was it no longer matters as weeds and roots have all but displaced the most stubborn of the foundation. The place seems to exist right at the boundaries of what people and animals find comfortable. No one and no thing is coming out here unless they intend to come out here. It's dead quiet except for the threatening hum of both the BMW and Volvo's running engines. The brights of both cars create an arc pointed straight at the boy.

Niall sits on his vintage gray BMW like it's a throne, elbows resting on his knees and chin in palm. Ronan leans against the Volvo and adopts a variation on Niall's stance.

"His own fucking son, huh?" Niall says.

"His own fucking son," Declan confirms. When he says 'fucking' it sounds a lot more hateful.

"Let's start at the beginning," Niall announces, stretching off the BMW. He crouches in front of the boy and peels the tape from his mouth. "Tell me your name."

The boy hacks the rag onto the ground, nearly vomiting everything else in his stomach too by the sounds of it. Niall crumples the tape in his hand and waits. When the boy doesn't answer, Declan steps in and repeats the question in broken, slurred Russian.

The boy laughs. "It's Bulgarian, you racist prick." He has perfect English tainted only by a nasally Jersey drawl. The boy jerks his head away from Niall, accidentally slamming it against the concrete behind him. "Fuck you very much."

Niall flits his hand in the air impatiently, "Declan, get to the good part."

Declan stares up as though he's reading cue cards in the air. "Joseph Kavinsky, born at precisely noon on May 27th - "

"28th, bitch."

" - Mother Adelaide, Ada to her friends, had a blood clot issue exacerbated by the premature birth. Her uncle's ex-wife's grandfather was a financial consultant for the Gambino family as recently as the 80's. No other connections of interest. Father Evgeni is - well, you're acquainted."

"More than that I'd say." Niall spares a chuckle. 

"So what?" Kavinsky shrugs as well as his restrains will let him. "You did a little Google search on my family. Big fucking deal. You gonna cry about it when you kill me?"

Niall had been pacing while Declan was spouting off the facts and now he bent down in front of the younger Kavinsky. "I have it on good authority that you're the beating heart of this operation. Who would have known he meant it literally? I should have known, really, I should have. Geno doesn't have a poetic bone in his body. Didn't. Now I asked for the stash and your daddy handed you over." Niall holds out his hand without looking away from Kavinsky. Declan drops the bag of pills into his hand. "Tell me, Joseph, where exactly did this come from?"

Ronan has never had to truly face the reality that there existed in his father two distinct sides: Niall the benevolent father, husband, teacher, role model and all those other sappy bullshit titles people put on greeting cards for 99c a pop versus Niall the businessman who carved out his own place among the criminal ground, right at the very top, with nothing more than his words and dreams.

"It's Kavinsky. Don't ever fucking call me Joseph." 

"We've never sold to you. Who's your connection?"

"You keep talking like you're the only one with any imagination. Learn to think bigger."

"You trust me not go after your little pack?" At this Kavinsky says nothing, any trace of amusement is gone from his face. Niall stands up and crushes the bag of pills under his boot. "Can you do it again?"

For a second, Ronan thinks that maybe Kavinsky won't answer. There's a beat of silence long enough for a drop of sweat to slowly slide down the back of Ronan's neck.

Eventually Kavinsky forces a laugh that sounds more like he's trying to catch his breath after having it punched out of him. He looks up at Niall, "Baby, I can go all night long." 

"Prove it."

Niall drags Kavinsky up by the shoulder and pushes him roughly toward the cars. Ronan moves to sidle his way into the BMW, where he expects to be, but Niall dismisses him without a word. It's not that the gesture itself is malicious, and maybe if it had been Ronan would have understood it easier. It's more the way Niall hasn't once looked at Ronan the entire night. It's the way this all-business Niall is even less like Ronan than he could have imagined and more like, to his dawning horror, Declan. It's the way his muscles tense like a rejection. Abandonment. He feels something intense bubble up in his throat and it takes space there, keeping his words from reaching his tongue when Niall lets Kavinsky sit shotgun in the BMW.

Declan must have his bullshit sensor on the most sensitive setting because he roughly grabs Ronan by the neck and forces him into the Volvo. He even throws an arm up to block Ronan's expected punch as soon as the two of them settle into the car. Ronan is shaking. He hits the dashboard once, then twice.

"Everything you dreamed of?" Declan can't keep the irritation from his voice. Ronan wants to hit something but since Kavinsky isn't around he has nothing to direct it at with any satisfaction. He's shot straight through the tantrum phase of his irritation and is now stuck in the mires of restless, simmering fury. He doesn't realize Declan has been talking this whole time. "You get used to it. It never goes away, but you get used to it."

The gun sits at Ronan’s hip, digging a deep bruise down into his muscle all the way back to The Barns.


	2. Chapter 2

Niall Lynch will make your dreams come true. Or so the rumor mill churns.

From the upper north forests along the edge of the American-Canadian border and down to the sweltering swampland scattered across the gulf, anyone with woes or worries, scores to settle or bets to rig, all of them will tell you where to go to make the impossible possible. His clients hail him as some sort of pseudo god. The Feds have an entire team dedicated to watching him at all times. Neither can prove anything about him at all. Though not for lack of trying.

On the surface, Niall Lynch lives the life of a simple farmer on his isolated, sprawling lands near the foot of the Blue Ridge Mountains in Virginia. By day he and his two older sons spend their time idyllically toiling the land the way God had intended. By night he and his two older sons spend their time - well, that's the issue, isn't it? No one know how or what they get up to other than the fact that they must be getting up to something somehow.

The truth is: by night, Niall dreams. The truth is: by morning, Niall is still holding his dreams.

He doesn't hold onto his dreams in a frou frou, self help _just believe in yourself yes that'll be $500_ sort of way - though it would be easy to mistake him for a charmer of that sort. He holds his dreams in his hands. Tangible things he can touch and use in the waking world.

Most know the rumors surrounding Niall Lynch and his affinity for the impossible. Most do not know that the same is true of his middle son. The impossible begets the impossible. Some would think it gracious that Niall decided to share this ability but, depending on who you ask, it may have been the most vindictive thing he's ever done.

* * *

It's not something Ronan is sure he'll ever get used to. Dreaming.

Diving into his own head isn't something he does all that much in waking life so that makes it exponentially worse in dreams. It feels a lot like being suddenly submerged. That familiar burn in his lungs, that moment where there's no light, no oxygen, just the seemingly endless expanse of his own mind, crawling towards eternity, and then - both slowly and all at once - the world sprouts from the void.

One second Ronan is surrounded by water that is not water. It shifts beneath his feet and through his fingers and down his throat until he remembers that he is not the water, though it tries desperately to consume him so. He separates himself from it, untangling his body, his form, his consciousness until there is Ronan and there is Everything Else.

A voice drifts across the waves. A question maybe? Or perhaps it's Ronan's own uncertainty. He continues on his way.

He imagines taking a step and he wills there to be land so there is land. Solid earth for him to travel, though he doesn't know where it goes. He never knows where it goes. Not without Niall's guidance. Still, there are things Ronan can do on his own. He knows the place he wants to be. It is filled with light drifting through leaves. Birds that sing in greeting. Roots and branches that know his name.

As Ronan thinks of these things, they sift into view as though he only needed to shine a light in the right direction. It took him months to get this far and it still isn't enough. The forest flickers into view, slow at first, the aperture adjusting but never quite finding that sweet spot. It's a thin copy of a memory of a story he once heard, yet it still sighs for him, eternally pleased at his presence. For all its joy at seeing him it still feels like it's holding itself back just so. The earth crackles beneath his feet as he takes a step. He doesn't know where he's going so he goes in any direction. There's no perfect way to orient oneself in precious, delicate Cabeswater and as far as Ronan is concerned, the every changing labyrinth only answers to Niall.

He opens his mouth to call out but nothing comes it. He doesn't even make a sound.

Leaves and tree needles drift around him, anxious to touch his skin, to communicate something to him in the strange way the forest does. In each little touch he hears the voice of the trees, murmuring just below what he can hear. _Greywaren, Greywaren_ is the only thing he can make out. It's a melody and a promise all the same. But it still doesn't do him any good.

What use is a whole world if he can't even live in it?

There's another voice mixed higher than the trees. Ronan catches the hint of it between the leaves, following it as best he can. Here it is a word. A sentence. A question. Take a step and it is the flutter of wings. The snap of a twig. An egg hatching just above his head. Cabeswater, though warm and inviting, is playful right now, leading Ronan on a meandering path that leads to everywhere and nowhere all at once. Normally, Ronan would revel in this, partake in the game. The chase. But first he needs to find Niall. The ground is gone beneath his feet as soon as he thinks it and suddenly the sky is cradling against his back. It's not so much Ronan shifting and reeling within the world, as it is just a shift in perspective. He reaches his hand and pulls the tips of the trees toward him and they laugh as his fingers tickle across their branches, sending vibrations all through the forest below. A group of birds fly up and the beat of their wings is a rhythm to the sound of the forest. Ronan's stomach surges into his throat as he falls into the vibration, eyes shut, the rush of wind gravity dragging him through the branches.

He hears something crash and realizes it's himself.

The canopy above him is golden in the afternoon sun and the leaves are tiny buds barely stretching into the late spring air. Ronan is on his back staring up at the forest, feeling like he's been lying there for hours. Days. Grass tickles the bare skin on his face, scratching against the stubble on his shaved head.

"Ronan?" Niall asks. Ronan found him.

Ronan sits up and where he expects pain there's nothing. In fact, he feels rested and calm.

"You didn't get me," Ronan says. His throat feels flayed but his voice sounds the same as it ever does, if only slightly tinged with petulance he can't conceal.

Niall tilts his head, a silent admission of the obvious. He paces around Ronan in the little clearing. It's a oddly perfect circle of grass and moss surrounded on all sides by trees and bisected unevenly by a chattering little stream. There's movement along the tree line in Ronan's peripheral but he doesn't look away from his dad. He wants an answer.

"So can we start?" Ronan asks.

"Was I not clear? You're supposed to stay at The Barns."

"I _am_ at The Barns."

"I'm in the middle of something. You can't just - " Niall gestures toward the sky before letting his arm drop back to his side.

Ronan is on his feet. He gestures to himself with both of his hands. Tries to present himself for all he's worth. "I made it here myself. That's - I was barely able to find Cabeswater last month and now I found you in it."

"It's impressive," Niall admits. "You're really getting a handle on all this. How did you do it?"

Truthfully, Ronan isn't even sure. Just _wanting_ it doesn't seem to be enough. Since Ronan never lies, he tells the truth: "I don't know."

"Oh, so it was an accident." Flat. Not disappointed, but not surprised, either.

"Then tell me how to do it _on purpose_ ," Ronan manages to say, instead of flinging himself into angry defense.

"Like this."

Ronan reads the impatience all over Niall in the way his movements are jerkier than they normally are. Stilted like he's trying to remember the next step in an elegant dance he hasn't done in years. It looks so wrong on him. Niall waves his hand like he's urging someone to hurry up and a path snakes open in the trees. It winds on itself, like a kite string caught on a breeze, before settling into a straight path covered by a tunnel of twisted branches. Niall points his hand at it. 

"Tell me where it ends," Niall demands. Ronan peers down the tunnel but is careful to not actually step inside it. It doesn't look like it goes anywhere. It looks like it goes everywhere. He says as much to Niall. Niall says, "That's true."

"Do you know where it ends?"

"Of course." Niall makes that urgent dismissive motion again with his hand, but this time it's directed at Ronan.

There's a buzzing in Ronan's head, but it's not a sound. It's a half step toward a feeling but he doesn't quite feel it in his skull so much as he does down in his neurons. It's as though he tripped a trap wire somewhere and injected himself with a slow moving poison, stuttering his thoughts on one replaying theme: acceptance acceptance acceptance. The sun up above in the sky doesn't move, but the shadows on the ground shift and grow like night is approaching. Darkness crawls up from the ground, blanketing everything just below the waist in shadows. Ronan looks up at the sun. Still there, still smiling genially like it's midday. Ronan looks down at the ground. Dark enough that Ronan can barely make out the shape of his hands if they dip below the shadows. The clearing looks half full of night and half full of day.

Niall drinks in the sight for a long time but his mouth barely curls into a smile. He takes a step forward and displaces the darkness in a ripple, leaving in his wake little bursts of twinkling stars. Ronan watches as he gathers the night in his hand, grasping at at as though it were a giant sheet of spun sugar, and forces it up into the sky. It locks in place. Just like that - night has fallen over the forest. Ronan had glanced up to try to track the moment the sun disappeared behind the veil of the night but he missed it. Niall smiles up at the stars he quite literally placed in the sky, all self-satisfied and in love with himself.

There's a rustling along the tree line and Ronan whirls in place. The night has heightened his senses, though he doesn't like to admit it. Vines and branches coalesce together into a bulging, beating heart of flora. It's unsettling though Ronan can't quite figure out why. He takes a cautious step forward.

"What is this?"

"Depends on what he wants it to be." Niall shrugs and the branches seize mid beat like a child caught red handed. Slowly slowly slowly the branches pull away under Niall's expectant gaze revealing Kavinsky wrapped up in the center.

Ronan is once against struck by the awful idea that he really doesn't know Niall. Sure, he knows his father, but what of him does he really know? It's one thing to know the work Niall has done in service of the family business, but it's exactly another to experience them firsthand. The most difficult part is that Ronan doesn't know what he's supposed to feel.

"Can't get performance anxiety now," Niall says. The bite in his voice surprises Ronan until he realizes that the comment isn't directed at him. The forest drops Kavinsky and he just barely manages to find his balance and hold himself up against one of the trees. Niall skitters some pebbles in the direction of the stream. "Where's all that fire you promised?"

Kavinsky lifts his head like he's going to say something, but the red marks on his neck are deep and angry and he can't get a sound out.

"I don't think anyone's ever told you, so I'll tell you right now," Niall takes to pacing around, "First, shush. Be quiet. Can you hear that?"

Ronan holds his breath and listens even though Niall hadn't been talking to him. The air is charged with something he can't quite figure out. A leaf flutters down from the sky and he swears he can hear it laugh.

"There used to be a river that flowed through the mountains. A grand river, strong even in the dead of the coldest winter. They say it flowed straight from the mouth of heaven, so far above the highest peak it would pull the stars in its path to the earth. Catch them in its stream and down they'd go.

"One day, a man - young, untameable, hungry for life - woke up from a dream he had about this river. About the sparkling banks and gilded curves. He had been so struck by its beauty that when he awoke the bright lights still stung his eyes, blinding him. There was nothing to do but walk. He walked for miles. Days. Months even, following the call of the river, unable to see where he was going. Not that he needed to. On he went until one day he found it. It was the first thing he'd seen in who knows how long. He stopped tallying the days when he couldn't distinguish between night and day. It was a magnificent river - just as vigorous as the man himself - tucked into a forest verdant and vigorous. The river was so full of joy when the man finally passed through its waters, dipping himself in the current, it sparkled with the fragments of stars that had shattered over time. The clear waters turned to liquid starlight and the man scooped up the remains of these stars. They turned to gold in his hands. Into seeds and saplings of all sort. Whatever it was he wanted. Needed. Sparkling, shimmer riches. It was the least the river could do for the man who heeded its call.

"The man saw no reason to return home and made the river his new home. He found a part where the waters were more placid, but still moving, and there he stayed. The river gave him what he needed as long as he returned what he could. And all the river had asked for was to be heard. To be known. The man became caretaker to the river and to travelers who stumbled upon the splendid shores.

"Soon, the travelers came not by accident, but with purpose. They had heard whispers of the magical caretaker in the forest and his pool of gold. He allowed them all their requests, as he would never be one to turn others in need away. Some of the others became so enamored with the river that they too stayed along its shores, plucking blessings from the banks as easily as stones. They thanked the stars for each one and the river, though not used to providing for so many, provided what it could.

"The caretaker grew old with these people, even coming to form a family. But the riches wouldn't keep him alive forever. It couldn't. And so he taught his son how to commune with the stars and the trees and river itself. He taught his son the language and the stories of the river until one day the man died and his son continued the legacy, not only as caretaker of the river but as magician for the people. Doling out blessings and riches as they asked.

"Things stayed like that for years. Decades. Until enough time had passed that no one remembered the role of the magician. Until they all forgot to give thanks and they only knew how to take. The magician gave because the magician hadn't learned from his father who hadn't learned from his father who hadn't learned from his father to speak the language. He couldn't even hear it anymore. The first tragedy was the river running cold and clear. The waters lost their sparkle and the stars had all but drained out of the skies. Still, the people took. The second tragedy was the river itself. Falling to its knees unable to give, slowly trickling into nothing until one day...it choked and ran dry."

Silence. There's no applause. Ronan swallows and he thinks it might be the loudest thing in the forest.

Niall grabs Kavinsky by the face and makes him look him in the eye.

"Who are you?" Niall asks in a low whisper, "And you who do you want to be?"

Kavinsky is still breathing like his throat is turning to stone inside him but he manages to pull up a shaky fist. Not to hit Niall, Ronan understands after taking a protective step forward, but rather to present something. His hands, looking more like skin covered bones than anything capable, are bruised and streaked with scratches from the trees but he manages to uncurl his fingers just enough. Ronan comes closer to see what it is. A key ring is hooked around Kavnisky's middle finger and it's attached to a modern looking key with a plastic piece on the top and tiny symbol Ronan recognizes but can't place. All he knows is that it's so unnatural and nothing like what he expects from Cabeswater.

Niall is smiling.

"Ronan," he says and Ronan's heart picks up the tempo. Niall looks at him. "We're done. Wake up."

"What?"

A divot in the ground appears like a giant pressing its thumb into the earth. It's slow moving and oddly gentle, but the more the dirt and earth and roots move out of the way, the more Ronan can see the beginnings of...something else. Something unnatural. Man made.

"We've done enough for tonight," Niall says, shuffling his feet back as the gap between him and Ronan gets bigger. "We're finished with tonight's lesson."

"I haven't even - " Ronan struggles to find words as the ground slips out from beneath him. Branches reach out and pull him back, gentle at first, but more urgent the more he tries to resist. Niall waves him off again with the same impatient hand motion that opened up the tunneled path and Cabeswater throws him off his balance by knocking his feet with knobble old roots. Niall tosses Ronan something - what exactly he can't be sure in the flurry of vines and branches surrounding him. It lands in his hand, heavy and smooth. Ronan pitches forward but the branches are pulling him back and the space in front of him is being stretched thin and long like taffy. He has no choice but to back into the tunnel but he still thrashes and struggles with the best of himself.

Before he knows it, Ronan is on his back in his bedroom, staring up at the part of the ceiling where it meets with the window. The sun is barely out. Ronan sits up and though he already knows it he checks his hands.

Empty.


	3. Chapter 3

The ceiling of Ronan's bedroom is tinted purple and bruised by the early morning sun. All Ronan wants to do is stare at those shrinking shadows for another two or six or twelve hours until he passes out again. Maybe he can convince his mind to shut off without wandering towards Cabeswater. He lets the thought slip from his mind and kicks himself out of bed. His mood stays just as dark as the room and it's only made worse when there's a knock on the door.

"We're leaving in ten. You know the drill," Declan says through the closed door. He sounds the same as always. Like nothing's changed in the past twelve hours.

"Fuck you," Ronan says. Declan's only response is the sound of his retreating footsteps creaking down the stairs. As soon as Declan leaves, a new rush of anger surges up through Ronan until his fist is crashing against the wall. The house groans in stubborn agreement. The anger fizzles down to a simmer. The Barns had always felt like it knew him. Like it held all of the love that Aurora left inside. Ronan shakes out the gradual pain growing in his knuckles. Great. He's gone and made himself sentimental on top of all the exhaustion. He's been running on the last fumes of adrenaline that had puffed into nothing hours and hours ago. Ronan stares out his window but it's still too dark to make out anything just past the lights glowing from inside the house. If he squints hard enough he can fill in the shapes of the hills and trees but it would be more memory than vision. The house stirs around him and he expects Declan to pester him again soon. Ronan pulls on a fresh shirt, plain and black as always, then goes to meet Declan down stairs.

Declan has apparently been awake since before the sun came up because the kitchen table is covered in boxes and reports. Everything from the family's delicately balanced ledgers, files on marks, and even a copy of the receipt for Ronan's candy bar from that stakeout a couple weeks ago that ended up going nowhere. All Declan's handiwork, of course. And so naturally he was quite proud of it. Which meant in simpler terms that Ronan couldn't use the table for breakfast, which meant that Ronan wouldn't be eating breakfast, which ultimately meant that Ronan would be starved and furious for the rest of the day. The shit just never stops, does it?

The one saving grace is that Declan likes to keep a very strict time table. When he glances up at Ronan he makes a point of making meaningful eye contact with every time piece in the house. There's a lot of clocks in The Barns. Nearly all of them novelty and only one that's ever accurate to the time - the one permanently affixed to Declan's wrist.

"Collections shouldn't take as long this morning. We'll likely have to close an account today." Declan shoves a thermos of boiling hot coffee into Ronan's empty hands. The protests, of which there are many, are too numerous to reach Ronan's tongue at once. Declan cuts them all off. "I'll handle this one. Matthew should have sent us something, so cheer up."

Declan pastes a robotic smile on his face and hands Ronan a folder. At first Ronan thinks it's empty but he flips it open and three thin sheets of paper flutter out. The top of the front page reads Joseph Kavinsky. The contents are thus: one short bio hand-written in Declan's rushed yet still legible cursive. A local Virginia RAP sheet with only one charge of reckless driving (dismissed before arraignment). And finally a single candid photo of a much more vigorous looking Kavinsky sitting in a half crumpled white car with another douchebag looking asshole with an undercut and too many piercings. This Kavinsky looks so different. Smiling and mischievous in a way that makes Ronan want to tear his face off.

"Is this it?" Ronan looks at Declan with incredulity.

"That's the end of my research. If you want more you'll have to get it yourself." Declan checks his watch and ushers Ronan out the door before Ronan can argue any further.

There had been a time not too long ago when any sort of business done for the family was exciting. Ronan remembers the moments clearly even if he can't remember the feeling. There was the time when Ronan had first ridden with Declan for collections and saw the awe on their client's faces. The soft, commanding way Declan would invoke their father whenever something even seemed to go slightly off. After that first time, Ronan had dreamed of being the one strike reverence into someone with the invocation of a single name. Ronan never thought the shine would wear off. He was wrong.

"Thank you for your continued business," Declan recites blandly. The nice young woman who owns the flower shop - Tanya or Tilly or whatever - slides a single white carnation across the counter. A silky twist of red ribbon is tied to a little card with too many hearts.

"For you." Her eyelashes are too long, clumped together by cheap mascara, and her round cheeks are dusted with too much of something that makes her look rashy. Declan takes the carnation without a word to join the others exactly like it in the compost pile back at The Barns.

Collections is a rather bureaucratic way of saying payment. Ronan didn't think it was possible to make a such a plain word even more plain and has more than once suggested a more badass name. Declan has more than once disagreed and the name collections stuck. It was here where Ronan began. It started his sophomore year. Niall had Ronan scribbling dates and names and filing boxes worth of reports late at night only to hand his work in to Declan in the morning. It was more paperwork than Ronan had expected and eventually he found that it reminded him of school.

"Can I get an advance?" asks one of their over eager clients, Mr. Prickett. He's been trying get accepted to the rather choosy country club two towns over and Niall had supplied him with a much needed edge. Temporary, of course, but oh so worth it.

Declan thinks the request over while he counts the money. When he's satisfied he hands the two stacks of pure hundred dollar bills to Ronan and he looks Mr. Prickett in the eyes. Declan says, "No."

Most clients are easy. Money is the preferred and easiest method of payment, but sometimes clients like to get creative. Ronan has seen IOUs that promise everything from services to future children. So far, Niall's never collected any children (as far as Ronan is aware), but he does seem to have a soft spot for the oddly mundane items that end up in his possession. Of course there are times when people can't pay. Niall prides himself on being flexible and understanding but a doormat he is not. There's a very simple remedy for those who can't pay. A one-two strike policy, as Declan has come to call it.

"Is this your signature?" Declan asks as he gently undoes the blindfold over the client's eyes. The man still has an oil soaked rag stuffed in his throat so he nods. "So you agree that you've read the Terms of Service and are aware of the consequences of non-timely payment?"

Declan holds the man's jaw open and pulls the rag in one motion. The man nods again. It's answer enough for Declan and he carefully cuffs his sleeves above his elbows. He then slips on his leather black gloves and gestures to the memory foam mat. They used to use an old carpet cutout but it started molding a year or so back from all the blood. This is much easier to clean. The client kneels even as he starts begging.

"Can't we work something out? There has to be something I can do?"

"Terms of Service," Declan repeats. He twirls the silencer into place with disinterest. "Mr. Jed Bollman, you have been found in breach of contract for non-timely payments. Your signature assures that you agreed to make payments in a timely manner and in the occasion that you could not, every effort would be made by you to explore other avenues of payment. You have failed to comply with these few and simple rules and because of this your account will be closed."

One chance, two shots.

Ronan doesn't have a problem letting Declan handle this side of things. Better Declan than him. It's not often that they close accounts. In fact, in the time that Ronan's joined Declan on collections, they've only ever closed two accounts. The first time, Ronan stayed in the car and Declan tried to explain the process as he did it. Ronan didn't say a word. The second time, Declan awkwardly offered Ronan the gun to which Ronan responded by punching Declan in the jaw. They fought. The client convinced them to give him a second chance and no later than three days and he had paid his debt and fled the country. The brothers returned home expecting Niall to be upset but he expertly spun it to his advantage as he always did. 

Niall believes it's better to be loved than feared, but he's not stupid as to believe that fear doesn't have it's place. So it usually falls on Declan to issues both the last warning and final sentence...and maintaining clients and collecting payments and -

"Grab me that bottle of peroxide." Declan folds his gloves and places them in the center console. Ronan retrieves the bottle in question while Declan shuffles through the backseat for the tarp and a fresh cloth. He hands the latter to Ronan. "Clean up while I get the body."

There's something about the sticky late spring and the exposed openness of the air that makes everything worse. Declan insists that closings must happen out in the open. No trees or buildings or anything to hide what they're doing. Some part of Ronan believes it to be a very Declan way of justifying things and Ronan's all but given up on trying to understand the way Declan's mind works. Ronan focuses instead on what's in front of him. He isn't sure he'll ever get used to this part and he isn't sure he ever really wants to. He does his best to not brush his fingers against the blood, to keep it as far away from him as possible, but a little smears against his skin. He pushes out a shaky breath and keeps going. This is much better than the carpet, he reminds himself. Much, much, much better.

Declan returns in time to help Ronan carry the mat back to the car. When they drop it in the trunk there's no trace of what just occurred.

"Can we get some fucking lunch or something? I'm starving." Ronan slams the trunk of the Volvo closed and Declan sighs like he's going to reprimand him but doesn't.

"We have a pick-up in twenty minutes. Then we need to swing by the post office." Declan checks his watch then looks up at the sun like he's trying to figure out which one of them could possibly be wrong. "Pick something around there. Anywhere but that weird gas station."

Ronan's answer is halfway between a "whatever" and a grunt. They settle into their post-closing routine which usually involves Declan finding the most banal radio station to fill the air and neither of them speaking. This time it's a questionable comedy set by some no name comedian that sounds like it might be older than the two of them combined given how casually problematic the whole thing is. The brothers listen in stone faced silence and never once laugh.

They keep driving and it seems like Declan is taking the long way around. It's only beginning to annoy Ronan when he begins to pick out some familiar scenery. He body retaliates, tension seizing his muscles, before his mind can figure it out. An imposing cast iron fence stands proud on the passenger side and they flit past so quickly it looks like spears raised and ready for battle. The closely packed brick buildings on the other side are barely visible from here but Ronan knows them very well. It wasn't so long ago that he had been a prisoner here once and the last thing he ever wants is to return. He'd done his best to make his rather explosive exit two years ago evident enough. Apparently Declan either somehow forgot or he doesn't care.

Aglionby Academy is ostensibly an all boys school for the elite and well moneyed. Though Ronan prefers to see it as it's own special hellscape content on personally destroying his life. On the surface, the school churns out students of a higher caliber destined for such great heights in political and global and literary circles. Most of the students carry with them names that instill awe. The few that haven't come prepared with their own name are soon to become one. Or, at the very least, a footnote to one of the other more profitable students.

The Lynch name doesn't mean much here. For all the effort Niall put into becoming king of his own slice of the underworld, polite society never bothered to learn his name. Here at Aglionby, the Lynch brothers were just another group of nouveau riche assholes desperate to make something of their meager name. All three Lynch brothers attended though only one managed to make it through to the end. Though, looking at how the other two turned out, it's difficult to say which was the more honorable achievement.

"What the fuck are you - "

"They're an extremely lucrative client. We're not going inside anyway. Shut up." 

Declan pulls off into a parking lot just across the street from the south entrance. There's a coffee shop that's changed hands as often as some of the more socially inclined students changed partners. Ronan always hated the place - especially with their weird stint as a biker bar but with coffee. Currently it's masquerading as a minimalist paradise full of sleek modern lines and mindfucking geometric patterns. The only splash of colors against the black and white are a few brown undertones and a tasteful, barely there mint trim around the menu.

"Stay in the car," Declan says. And Ronan throws up a rude gesture in response. As if either of them expected Ronan to do anything else.

Declan orders a coffee in a to-go cup and puts in close to fifty packets of sugar. He sips it every few packets and just keeps adding more. Ronan thinks the only reason he doesn't add more is because he used all the packets in the little holder. Satisfied with his sugary monstrosity, Declan stands by one of the high tables near the window. There are no chairs in the place except for a bench that slopes in tune with the counter. Declan nods at Ronan and Ronan nods back.

At first, Ronan doesn't realize that Declan's contact has arrived. He thinks nothing of the young man in the tweed vest and the coordinated cuffed chinos. He looks like any of the other holier than thou Headmaster's List former students who never quite got out of Aglionby's gravitational pull. A small group of alumni handpicked by the headmaster for academic excellence or most pleasing bootlicking or whatever. They were always the biggest group of bastards - which is saying something, as the entire school population is basically one-hundred percent bastard. There used to be a rumor whispered among the Lynches that Declan had been tapped for an invitation. He'd been once joined at the lips to Aglionby angel Richard Campbell Gansey III - who's had his place on the Headmaster's List etched out since the dawn of time - but something, or perhaps even someone, shot any chance of that and ended all such rumors.

It isn't until the young man strikes up what is obviously an exchange with Declan that Ronan starts to really pay attention. There's something about him that itches at the back of Ronan's mind. Like an odd game of visual telephone played over a couple different years. He looks about Declan's age, but the lack of confidence betrays him for much younger. The confidence he carries is practiced but shakey. He must have been in Ronan's year or maybe just above or below. There's something familiar about him but the silhouette isn't matching with anyone Ronan can think of. Declan finishes whatever business they have and walks back to the car, a new stack of reports cradled under his arm. Ronan manages to get caught in the young man's gaze. Contradictory brown eyes. Judgmental and sharp. He's seen those eyes before...

"Fuck, is that Parrish?" Ronan asks the air but Declan answers as he opens the driver side door and leans in.

"It's surprising to me, too. There's been a slight change in plans."

Ronan looks over to see Declan flipping through some papers. "What are you talking about?"

"The plans have changed slightly. What are you not getting?" He finds whatever report he's looking for and reads it intently, quietly mouthing the words to himself. It's a sheet of formulas that don't make sense to anyone except Declan.

Ronan glances over and sees Parrish is watching the two of them from the other side of the parking lot. He keeps glancing between them and the road, watching every car that comes in.

"I thought Gansey was our contact. What happened to him?" He locks eyes again with Parrish. Parrish looks away first when a shiny black luxury sedan glides into the parking lot. The windows are tinted full black and Ronan can't see the driver.

"I'm going to find out." Declan gently tucks the papers back into their folder and holds out the keys to the Volvo. Ronan stares at them. "Get the mail and meet me back at The Barns."

"Fuck that," Ronan says even though he swipes the keys from Declan, "I'm coming with you."

"That's an official academy vehicle. Do you really want to ride in that? That's what I thought. Post office first then back to The Barns. You'll go nowhere else. Don't argue with me."

Declan slams the door and doesn't look back once. He slips into the black car and Ronan's worldview tilts just enough into bizarre. From last night until this moment, everything is just fucked.

Ronan toys with the idea of following the car but it takes the winding roads near the copse used for hunting in the fall. Undeniably Aglionby land. The roads through there are narrow and few, making it difficult to follow without being obvious about it. Ronan never liked tailing people anyway. It always felt too quiet for his liking. If Declan wants to wander the Aglionby grounds pretending he's in their elite, silk-lined pocket then that's his business.

It doesn't quite hit him until he steps through the front door of the post office, but Ronan realizes this is the first time he's done anything for the family business alone. Declan is always with him when they're out and Niall is always with him when they're home. It's strangely mundane and underwhelming. The old man at the front recognizes Ronan and lets him into the secure PO boxes without any fuss. Ronan nods and goes to pick up what they have. He waits for the door to click back into place. Security. That was one of the first lessons Declan had worked to teach him.

There's not much mail. Interesting mail, anyway. There are bills and spam that Niall never deals with. Every last one is overdue and threatening in a polite, passive aggressive way. Nothing any of them need to worry about. Ronan puts those in the trash without a second thought. There's a local flier imploring Dear Citizen to donate to some fund for saving the local forest. Probably written by one of those bored farmer's wives who dominate the weekend market with their gossip and bad handmade soaps. That can also go in the trash. Ronan nearly tosses a brightly colored postcard with it but the familiar scraggled handwriting catches his eye. He reads it over once and smiles then reads it again. That one goes in his pocket.

Finally there is a box wrapped in plain brown paper packaging and twine. It looks old timey in a brushed magazine sort of way. There's no return address and it is addressed simply to LYNCH, WITH LOVE. Ronan figures he's as much a Lynch as any other and rips the packaging open. It's a plain box that's too big for the contents. A thick tri-folded piece of parchment sealed with silvery wax and an unfamiliar symbol and underneath is an expensive velvet clam shell box. It feels weighty and well-crafted and the dark navy blue of it nearly looks black in the shadows. Maybe it's the good mood the postcard had put him in, but Ronan has a good feeling about this. He reads the letter once and frowns then turns the page over and around but it's just the one line and nothing else.

_Maybe this will help you watch your fucking back._

The paper feels like lead in his hands, heavy and rough and too much. He runs this thumb along the gilded hinge of the box. He curses under his breath and pops the lid open. To his credit, he doesn't drop anything but he does curse again. Louder this time.

The eye still looks wet and gelatinous against the abalone shell interior cushioning of the box. With the icy blue iris it's almost as if he's looking into a mirror. It twitches and Ronan snaps the box shut.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :^)  
> hello. i'm still here. updates should be more forthcoming moving forward. tags should be more accurate as well. thanks, y'all.


	4. Chapter 4

Because Declan had made it very clear that Ronan is to return immediately back to The Barns, Ronan drives Henrietta aimlessly. The clamshell box and it's odd letter are jumbling around in the backseat where he can't see it. He drives in no particular direction without thinking or looking, making long winding circles around neighborhoods and shopping districts. That car behind him is definitely following him.

It's difficult for the car to be anything but conspicuous. No license plate is what catches Ronan's attention first. The shape is too modern, too curved, and the color - plain black - sometimes catches the light and belies the carbon fiber underneath. The biggest give away is the windows that are tinted too dark to see into. Definitely illegal.

Ronan is still unnerved by the disembodied eye riding in the backseat so he watches the car carefully, trying to remember everything he can about it. He's near the edge of town and he remembers a small turn off just ahead, slightly hidden by the slope of a hill. He follows the main road at his regular, meandering speed and the car behind him follows. He takes a sharp right into the small roadway and kicks the Volvo into a low gear as he speeds up the slope. The tires are kicking up dirt and gravel but he hears the sound of the other car screeching to a halt. He doesn't slow down.

By the time the dust behind him clears he checks his rear view mirror expecting a chase on his hands. He may not have driven this road before but there hasn't been a road he couldn't handle. The mirror is blank, though, except for the last puffs of dust settling back onto the road. He can still make out the shape of the car sitting perpendicular to the entrance of the turnoff. It's not moving. It's definitely watching him. One of the windows rolls down and a hand slips out making a rude gesture at Ronan - tattoos on the knuckles, bony ragged fingers. They've given up on the chase.

The road is too narrow and too steep to turn around. He also doesn't feel like chancing a chase with that other car. So he continues to ride the steep elevation as it hugs the hill-turned-mountain and into a part of the forest he's never been before.

Ronan has a secret that he'll never tell Declan or Niall or even Matthew. He'll never tell anyone. The only reason he's been able to find Cabeswater in his dreams is because he found Cabeswater in reality. He hadn't believed it at first but the dreamy quality of the place was completely unmistakable. It was an accident. Only a few months ago before he lost the Supra, the last car Niall had dreamt for him before deciding that maybe Ronan was not in fact ready to have his own car. Ronan had won a race against a stoner kid in a Mustang, easiest thing in the world but oh so entertaining, and had taken a victory lap up into the mountains. He became lost. The day became night. The road winded about in sharper, narrower, more dangerous places and he eventually had to bite the bullet and camp. In his car. Like an idiot.

He's still not sure if he actually slept or dreamt that night because the dream was him in the backseat of his car surrounded by the same forest he was sleeping in. Only the quality of light was what he wanted and it filled with sounds and creatures that he imagined and the forest had a voice. Many voices, really, and they all guided him through their merry lanes and tufted avenues. They showed him the way back to The Barns and when he dreamt again that night, the forest once again greeted him like an old friend.

He never told Niall and Niall never asked how Ronan figured it out. 

The road ends abruptly in a small clearing surrounded by thick trees. It's high up enough that it would make for a good view of the valley below if the trees had been maintained at all. As it is now one would have to use their imagination to see anything of use.

Ronan kills the engine and surveys his surroundings from the car. He's not entirely sure of his location but he must be close to Cabeswater. In fact, this might even serve as an easier way to get to it than his normal drive that takes him on a long roundabout path along the edges of the one of the mountains. Not that the drive bothers him, but it might be nice to have an easier access point. Just over that hill, maybe?

He's still lost in thought when someone bangs on his window. His hands fly up in self defense but it's just an old woman. A very angry woman spitting something furious at him, finger pointed in stark accusation. Ronan had never been scolded much by anyone other than Declan in a long time and he finds the whole experience very humbling. He bites down the feeling glares back at her.

"I've caught you this time! I'm calling the cops right now!"

Oh so she's not just angry she's also crazy. Ronan ignores the woman and keys the ignition. It stutters.

"Too bad you just missed your friend!" The woman is still screaming at him, pounding her little fists against the window. "I've got you both this! Right here on camera!"

The car stutters again and Ronan can practically feel Declan's future look of disappointment weighing on him now. Between the woman and the car Ronan has had enough. He jams the keys into his pocket and throws the door open. The woman nearly topples over but her anger is enough to make her stand. She's outright cursing him now but Ronan is used to that sort of behavior.

"No one here to help you this time, huh?" She's got a lot of fight in her, Ronan will give her that. "Not that your friend's old junker is any good. I thought you richies were better at keeping care of things!"

For all of her vitriol the woman is keeping a wide berth from Ronan and the car. Now that he thinks about it, he's not sure where the woman came from. It's quite a walk and the last property was farther down the hill. She had been waiting here...for a car. This car? _Declan_?

"What happened to the other car?" Ronan asks. The forest looks more malicious than it had when he first got here. Why would Declan be coming up here? So often that he bothered an old woman? There's no way he knew -

"He got tired of waiting and left. Couldn't wait for you to meet him so he pulled that old orange monstrosity out of here. Scared my cat with the noise! She nearly scratched my arm off!"

 _Old orange monstrosity_. Ronan releases a breath. Leave it to Declan to turn everything into a game of 4D chess including his stupid little trysts with his dumb ex. Was Gansey his ex? Whatever they are it doesn't matter. Declan loves making things complicated and bureaucratic. Gansey probably likes it. Ronan suddenly feels very grimy driving in Declan's car. He slams the door shut and ignores the old woman's threats that surely the cops have them surrounded. The car starts when he floors the gas pedal and he peels out smoothly. There are no cops when he arrives back at the main road. The car that had been following him, too, is also gone.

* * *

There's a moon white Mitsubishi Lancer Evolution X parked askew in front of the house by the time Ronan returns to The Barns. It's flashy and garish and so unsettlingly unlike his childhood home that it takes all of Ronan's power to not crash the Volvo face first into the thing and end both of these pathetic excuses for cars. He can feel the pedal just beneath the rubber of his boot. A voice in his head, one that sounds exactly like Declan, is fussing that sort of unfun angry that Ronan has come to expect from Declan. Ronan slowly lumbers the Volvo into the lined off quadrant Declan had put down years ago. Declan's personal parking spot.

Just around the other side of the house - in a spot that had once been a prime make believe location for much smaller Lynch brothers - Ronan can hear the edges of a tense argument. He shouldn't be surprised and he isn't. Unless they were working, Declan and Niall made no secret that they didn't quite see eye to eye. He follows Declan's lecturing voice around the corner and is caught off guard when he doesn't see or hear his father.

It's a bastardization of a familiar scene. Declan pacing with papers in his hand somehow managing to look more and more exhausted by the minute. Niall perched on the fence or a hay bale or the porch, hunched over a plate or a magazine or literally any mundane thing he deemed more worth of his attention than his oldest, most neurotic son. Only this time it's an unopened bottle of something clear and nearly glowing and it isn't Niall. It's Kavinsky.

 _Fuck_.

Kavinsky notices Ronan first and they stare at one another. Neither of them pay attention to Declan until his fist is well into Kavinsky's face.

"Where is he?" Declan says. Kavinsky spits blood onto the ground.

"Bullshit," Kavinsky says, which isn't an answer. He's still looking at Ronan.

Niall appears from inside the house looking fresh and unencumbered by whatever argument might have been brewing outside. He takes stock of Declan still pacing, Kavinsky with a new bruise, and Ronan standing dumbly. He must find nothing out of the ordinary because he beckons his sons inside and is sure to close the door before Kavinsky could get any ideas.

"What's that?" This is directed at Ronan. He dismisses Declan as though Declan weren't even there.

"Matty says hi." Ronan pulls the postcard from his pocket and hands it to Niall. He smiles when he reads it, just the same as Ronan had. The same pull to the corner of his lips, the same softening of his features.

Ronan doesn't miss the way Declan hovers near them, quietly waiting for his turn. Niall tucks the postcard into the corkboard Matthew had made in his last year of high school. And by made of course it means he crisscrossed a few different patterns of washi tape and spilled some sprinkles over the top - _not glitter_ , he had insisted. It now serves as a little corner for Matthew. His postcards; rejection letters from all the respectable colleges; an out of focus picture of his dorm room half obscured by his thumb; a neat colored leaf. It has the strange effect of looking both completely out of place at The Barns and also like the final puzzle piece no one had realized was missing. Declan eagerly plucks it as soon as Niall turns his back.

"There was also this..." Ronan sets the plain cardboard box on the table but leaves it closed. He doesn't want to touch any of the contents again. He doesn't want to see them either.

Niall examines the box slowly, feeling the edges and testing all the flaps. He edges open the box the practiced care and cautiously shifts through the contents like he knows what to expect. He reads the note but his face doesn't betray any emotions. He carefully grabs the edges of the clamshell box like it might hurt him. He calls Declan over and Declan sets aside any arguments and does as he's told. This is business. Ronan leans away on the other side of the table with his back leaning against the breakfast counter. He plays with the leather bands on his wrist while he waits. Ronan knows what's coming but it doesn't stop him from wincing when Niall finally pops the hinge.

"It's real," Ronan says quietly.

"Are you sure?" Declan asks. Of course he'd be skeptical.

"I didn't fucking dream it," Ronan bites back. The implication that Niall hadn't either is understood. The further inference - Kavinsky couldn't have possibly - is the one Declan probably has an issue with.

Niall is quiet, letting his finger hover above the eye. Like he wants to squish it or touch it somehow but he can't quite bring himself to do it. The eye is staring straight up at Niall like it can't look away. And it really can't. It's an eye for God's sake, separated from socket and nerve and brain and _person_. Yet it moves so naturally. Niall clasps the box shut.

"Declan, get K."

"You let him just wander around?" Ronan says and he's unable to keep the petty accusation out of his voice.

"What am I supposed to do? Keep him locked in the attic? I'm not a monster," Niall says in a voice that's more pleading than Ronan would have imagined. "I can feel you disagreeing, Declan."

Declan merely shrugs a shoulder. He adjusts his holster, checking to be sure his gun is still locked and loaded, then heads out the door without a word.

"You think he dreamt this?" Ronan asks. Ronan's seen many dream things - created dream things of his own. All of them had a certain quality to them that he could feel. This though? He's not feeling it.

"What the alternative?"

Ronan doesn't like the alternative so he doesn't answer. The only options open to Ronan are either diving in after something he doesn't really want to chase or letting the whole thing lie. He toys with the idea of taking the leap when there's a commotion outside. Niall perks up but he waits. Listens. It's more than an argument. It's the sound of a car screeching to a halt. It's a gunshot. Birds flapping through trees. Another one.

Ronan freezes. He hates himself for it. Niall jumps into action. He drags Ronan out with him.

One second Ronan is frozen staring at the blur of _housedooryard_ , mind racing at a thousand thoughts that jam his whole nervous system, and the next he's being toppled to the rough wood of the front porch. He sucks in a breath full of dust and mold and the smell of The Barns. Bullets whizz around him. There's the sharp snap of gun firing just above his head. Declan is cursing under his breath. He's holding Ronan's head down with one hand and shooting his gun with the other.

"What the - what are you waiting for?" He empties another round in the direction of the drive way. He forces Ronan along the porch until they're covered by small heap of junked cars. The gunshots have quieted. At least for the moment.

Ronan's senses finally come back to him and he breathes. His heart is about to burst out of his chest. Declan quickly changes the round on his gun and he glances at Ronan like he's the most irritating thing. One bullet flies randomly through the air and hits the house. Somewhere Niall returns the shot with more precision. Declan jerks his head for Ronan to follow as he moves along the side of the house. Ronan fumbles with his gun and he doesn't have time to second guess anything.

They meet with Niall and immediately he and Declan start exchange information in fragments and acronyms Ronan knows nothing about. It sounds so close to something that makes sense but the adrenaline erases Ronan's ability to understand. Someone breaks through the edge of trees but it sounds like thudding, retreating footsteps. Niall and Declan nod. Ronan grips his gun but he doesn't know what to do.

Declan is on his feet in a second, gun trained and ready. Ronan tries to mirror the movement but he's less confident. There's no time to think. The last remaining intruder is nearly out of sight, limping furiously down the driveway. Declan fires two quick shots in succession. Ronan thought he might have missed at first but no. The first shot rang close enough to the intruder that he turned around in fear and the second caught him straight in the leg. He's screaming as he falls to the ground. 

Declan had never meant to hit with that first shot.

Niall strolls down the driveway, hands in his pockets, walking casually to the tune of the intruder's screams. Declan is to his right and Ronan to his left. They all huddle around the man bleeding out on the floor. Niall presses his boot against the knee Declan had shot. A perfect hit. He looks to Declan.

"Who are these guys?"

The intruder is choking on his own inability to breathe. It nearly covers Niall and Declan's conversation.

"Hired, obviously," Declan begins. He still hasn't let go of his gun. "Only a professional would have made it in here. Guns are cheap, though. Maybe they weren't told who we are and they honestly didn't know. Which leaves only a few very rich possibilities for who might have sicced them."

"No," Niall says disbelievingly. "Peaches?"

"Guns and accessories are that tier but the rest of it doesn't fit. This wasn't an assassination. This was something else."

"Where's Kavinsky?" Niall asks. Declan understands the implicit order and goes to find him. "Tell me what you think of all this."

Ronan struggles in the silence that grows between them until he realizes that he's actually supposed to answer. The intruder is clearly struggling and it doesn't help that Niall has him pinned down with his boot. The entire thing makes Ronan's skin crawl. He bends down though and the intruder raises his hand to Ronan's face. He's trying to get his attention so Ronan looks him in the eye. He gestures shakily to something near his chest and Ronan allows the intruder to guide his hand to an inside pocket. Niall watches with detached interest.

For a moment, Ronan is terrified that he's going to find a locket with a picture of this man's spouse and children. Or a letter from a long lost lover. Or a bomb set to go off when Ronan touches it. He finds none of these things, however. It's an envelope not unlike the one from the box. It's thick and weighty with the same silvery wax seal. Beautifully painted calligraphy adorns the front: LYNCH, WITH LOVE.

Ronan gets back on his feet and opens it so he and Niall can read it together. This doesn't make any sense. It's an invitation. A wedding invitation.

> _Your presence is cordially requested at the upcoming wedding ceremony for Piper Laumonier and Colin Greenmantle. Reception to follow. Dinner and refreshments to be provided. Open bar to those who deserve it._

All of this to deliver a message? An invitation? 

What have they done?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> come find me on [ tumblr](https://stamatis.tumblr.com/)!


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